The Bad Boy OR The Best Friend

sixteen

Chris pulls up outside Sam's house and I take deep breaths, my head hitting the back of the seat as I force back the tears that are brimming my eyes as I let the realisation of everything hit me. Why the hell did she sent me that email? Did her heart not shatter into pieces before even trying to contact me? Fuck!

I run a shaky hand through my hair as I let the numbness take me over. I want to go home, right this moment but then everyone would start questioning me and that's the last thing I want. So, I suck it up and step outside. I am wearing shorts and red plain t-shirt, which I think passes for a house party, along with my sneakers.

"There they are." Jordan points at Evan's car as he steps out, moving to open Rose's side of the door, and I snort.

Chris eyes me at my reaction, and I roll my eyes. Evan is the least of my problems right now, although I do want to hug him and cry for hours like all those years ago when I finally learned the truth about my mother. But, this isn't the place for that, especially when he's with his girlfriend.

Breanna and Luke also come over to where we are standing and together, all of us make our way inside the house. I wonder sometimes what happened to Jordan and Chris's famous popular group, because they seem to hang out with us a lot. Evan always fluctuated between hanging with Breanna and I, and them. But now it's like we are a group of friends – and I like it, but I am just curious.

"You okay?" Chris asks near my ear, so that only I could hear and I nod at him.

"Yeah." I say, forcing a smile.

I feel his hand on my back as we are hit by the smell of alcohol lacing the air. The whole team cheers as they look at their three players, and I turn around to get myself a soda, but Chris's hand stops me from moving. I frown at him, but he's smiling and talking to his friends as his fingers move down to intertwine with mine. I ignore the feeling that tries to overwhelm me as he holds my hand like that, like it's something we usually do – but we don't.

He's distracted as two boys come over to join the conversation about today's game. I take that as an advantage and slip out of his grip. Sam's house is big, and I don't even have to wonder why – if he's throwing a party that means that his parents are loaded pretty well.

I move into the kitchen and find myself a can of soda, before pulling out my earplugs from my back pocket and moving between the packed house, the loud music turning even louder. It takes me a few minutes to figure it out, but I finally find my way to the back of the house. I am pretty impressed to find the deck, overlooking the greenery at the back of the house.

There are very few people out here, only three to four people, and I am thankful. A vacant chair is lying there, so I occupy it before putting my playlist on the shuffle, and closing my eyes. I deliberately didn't play the sad song play list, because I don't want to cause a scene at the party.

I am on the tenth song, I think when I finally open the mail again and reread all over again, my eyes looming over each and every word as I gulp, trying to think of something – anything that I would want to say to her. I have a lot, actually, but I don't know how to do it. And before I do anything at all, I want to tell my father about this.